The Sickbed of Cuchulain
by Amberle Elessedil
Summary: A series of stories tracing Artemis and Holly over the course of a lifetime. In this installment: Myles does not believe in Santa, and is rather surprised to find his brother meeting elves under the mistletoe.
1. The Sickbed of Cuchulain

**The Sickbed of Cuchulain**

_In need of healing. Time is of the essence. _

_Respectfully,_

_Artemis Fowl_

So ran the red-tagged e-mail that flashed on Holly's screen one April morning as she attempted to tackle a pile of paperwork that seemed destined to last her into the early hours of the afternoon. Thinking of that similar message last year and what it had preceded, Holly dropped the e-form she was holding. It took her approximately four and a half minutes to procure an emergency aboveground visa from Commander Trouble Kelp (a personal best) and a further two hours and thirty eight minutes to board a pod, hijack the next flare and fly to Fowl Manor, Ireland.

When she beheld Artemis Fowl sitting up in bed eating chicken soup, she very nearly introduced him to her new blaster ray.

"I have a temperature of 39 degrees Celsius, a debilitating headache and no voice to speak of," the boy croaked when Holly, dusty and bedraggled, snapped that he _would_ be in need of healing by the time she was done with him.

"You have a cold," Holly retorted, "For Frond's sake, I thought you were dying!" She collapsed into his desk chair, massaging her eyes with her fingertips so that she missed the expression that crossed Artemis's face. It looked like something from the spaces between surprise and satisfaction.

"I can't focus well enough to write a simple thesis and I have a lecture to prepare for Edinburgh University in a week's time. Besides, it's irksome to suffer chills and headaches when one has a cure-all within easy reach," he smiled, evidently under the impression that he had paid her a compliment, and placed his empty bowl on the bedside cabinet. He was wearing a set of light blue woollen pyjamas and an indigo dressing gown with a monogrammed breast pocket. Irritation and affection mingled in Holly's breast. At least he wasn't dying.

"I'm only 'within easy reach' because I broke half a dozen protocols to get here. Why the melodrama, Artemis? And let's try some honesty, just for once."

A grimace tugged at his mouth, "I did fear that a more casual approach might impede the swiftness of your journey. I don't like being sick," he paused and she could see him weighing his next words; his cheeks, flushed from the fever, reddened a little further, "Besides, you haven't visited in a while."

Holly rolled her eyes, "Artemis, one day, just once, I would like to see you ask for something honestly, without lying or manipulating people into doing what you want. And on that day, I will do anything you ask," she got to her feet and walked to the bedside, reaching up to take his face between her hands, "Now let me see to your cold."

Her friend caught hold of her wrists, stopping her, "Ah, Holly, it is a full moon tonight, as I'm sure you are aware…"

"I am, Artemis," Holly said, giving him an enquiring look. He dropped her hands and self-consciously smoothed the coverlet over his knees.

"Were you planning on performing the ritual tonight, by any chance?"

"Not really, no," she looked at him suspiciously, "In two or three moons, perhaps—I've just been so busy lately. Why?"

"You don't feel your healing of me might be more efficient if your powers were freshly renewed? There is an oak by a riverbend not ten miles from here."

Now Holly got it, and she eyed him doubtfully, "Artemis, I make a _terrible_ nursemaid. Reading in English gives me a headache, I can't make soup and I'm not going to murmur soothingly as I mop your fevered brow."

Artemis cleared his throat. It sounded painful, "I would not expect it of you, Captain. Just talking to me would suffice."

"You shouldn't be talking at all," Holly toyed briefly with the idea of healing Artemis now and spending the afternoon with him anyway. It had been a long time since her last visit. But she _was_ running a tad low on magic and infections were more complicated to treat than straightforward tissue damage. Half-completed healings could take a toll on the body—Butler was testament to that. After a moment of deliberation, she settled herself on the end of his bed, "What do you want then? A story?"

She had meant it as a joke, in fact, but interest kindled in Artemis's mismatched eyes, "I haven't studied the folklore of the People in depth. Their fables could prove interesting. Please, go ahead."

"Oh," said Holly, surprised, "Well. Alright then," she thought back to her childhood and the lilting cadence of her mother's voice in the late hours of the morning. She had never been particularly interested in bedtime stories—but that was by the People's standards, and they were bards and tellers of tales by nature. So although it took her a moment to latch onto the thread of a story, her voice when she spoke was rhythmic and soft and the words rang with the weight of ages past.

"_In the old time, when the world was young and the People walked still on the surface, there lived an elfin Queen that the faires called Fand. She was kind and wise, and those that saw her said that she was more beautiful than the sunset over the western ocean. The chief of her armies was Manannan that men call the Sea God, though in truth he was Commander of the Fair Ships of Eiru. Now Queen Fand and her ladies were in the habit of flying over the coast of Eiru, now called Ireland, in the morning light before they took to bed. And lest they should be separated by storms or ill luck, each linked herself to a fellow by a girdle of silver, save Fand and her sister Li Ban, who were linked by one of gold._

_So one early morning the Queen and her ladies were flying when they were surprised by a young Mud Man who stood on the rocks by the water's edge and began to hurl stones at the low-flying fairies. Perhaps he believed them to be birds, for the eyes of Mud Men are weak and foolish. Or perhaps he saw the golden girdle and coveted it, for their hearts are easily moved to greed and avarice."_

"Are all your tales this unflattering to humans?" Artemis asked, managing to sound scathing even in his scratchy voice, "I'm not surprised you grew up hating us if this was the propaganda you were subjected to as a child."

"I think we're more concerned with you driving us underground and slowly poisoning the planet," Holly shot back, "Do you want me to tell the story or not?" He made a 'please continue' motion and she did.

"_Most of his shots went wide, but one stuck Fand in the arm and put her shoulder out of joint. She would have fallen into the surf were it not for her sister, who caught and held her until her magic could heal the unjury. Now Fand was put in such a fury at the audacity of this Mud Crawler, who would dare attack a Queen of the faires, that she broke with tradition—for the People spoke rarely to humans even then—and alighted before him with all her retinue behind her._

"_I have not met with many humans," she said, "And this, it seems, is fortunate, if all your race make a habit of throwing rocks at passing fairies who have done you no harm. Tell me, child, what is your name, and how have I or my ladies offended you that you seek to drown us in your sea?"_

"_I am Cuchulain, nephew of the King of Ulster," said the Mud Man, "You have my apologies, Lady, for I thought you were a flock of birds and I sought to bring you down for the gold you carried. You should be wary of flying past this point in future, for I often shoot here and I could well have killed you if my arrows were not spent."_

_As he spoke, he gestured to his side, where a pile of dead birds lay with feathered arrows in their breasts. This sight, and the arrogant tone of his words, did nothing to cool the anger of the Queen, who had flown with the sea birds on many a morning and did not think the death of any of them worth a golden girdle. Fand, who as I have said was the kindest and wisest of the elfin Queens, yet felt her blood go hot within her at the irreverence in his tone, and she removed the binding between her sister and herself and approached him with it cradled in her hands._

"_A prize, then, for your marksmanship," she said, and she struck him with the jewelled end of the girdle, on the left shoulder in payment for the injury he had dealt her, "Have no fear, we shall not come near this place again." Then Fand and her ladies took flight once more, and if ever she thought of him it was only with anger or contempt, though she might have resented him a little more for the punishment he had driven her to, for the People are not violent in their hearts."_

Artemis gave a slight cough which did not quite disguise a snigger.

"_What?_" Holly demanded, breaking off her tale once more.

"Nothing," Artemis rubbed his upper arm, "Only that I have enough bruises here to prove just how violent your species can be…and I believe you consider me a friend. Are emotional outbursts common among all fairies, or just elves?"

"Maybe it's just you humans that drive us to distraction," she retorted, "And stop acting so hard done by. I've never whipped you, have I?"

Artemis's eyes slid out of focus. He licked his lips, opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, then shook his head mutely. Holly had the not entirely unfamiliar feeling that she was skirting the boundaries of dangerous territory and hastened to go on with the story.

"_A year passed, and one night as Fand presided over her court she was informed, not without surprise, that a Mud Man had come to beg audience with her. She received him—he was a large man with the look of a warrior—and he bowed low before her and said,_

"_O Queen of the Fair Folk, I am Laeg, friend and servant to the Lord Cuchulain. One year ago my Lord did you grievous insult and you punished him for it, as is your right. Lady, the wound you dealt him has not healed. These many months he has been sick, unable to leave his chambers. He drinks little and cannot eat, he dreams while waking and he burns with a fire that would bake him dry."_

"He must have been exaggerating," the Irish boy scoffed, all awkwardness forgotten, "It is highly unlikely that such an infection could persist for a year without resolving or ending in death. The wound must have reopened."

"Shut up or I'm leaving."

Silence.

"Well?"

"I was under the impression I was to 'shut up'."

_Smack._

"_Now Fand took pity on the young human and was ashamed that in her anger she had nearly brought his death upon him. So that very hour she flew to Ulster, where Cuchulain lay in his chamber with his family all about him, weeping and mourning for they thought he was close to death at last. Fand sent Laeg in before her to clear the room, for it was not done for humans to look upon the Queen of the fairies. And then she entered and came close to Cuchulain and he saw her. He was thin and wasted, but he would have risen from the bed and bowed, had Fand not stayed him._

"_Lady," he said, "I lie before you humbled by my own conceit. Laeg would have you heal me, but I would ask your forgiveness instead, if you would grant it. I do not wish to die the fairies' enemy."_

"_You shall have forgiveness and healing both," said the Queen, and she kissed the wound upon his shoulder, which healed as though it had never been. The fever left his body and Cuchulain was well again, and a friend and champion of the People for years to come."_

Holly stopped. Artemis waited, frowning. At length, he broke the silence, "Is that the end?"

"The end of that story," said Holly, "Cuchulain and the fairies had many adventures, but to tell them would take weeks. I thought this one would appeal to you," she grinned, "A Mud Man attacks a fairy and a few months later she's his personal physician."

Artemis did not smile at the joke. He looked distracted and dissatisfied and not particularly grateful for the story Holly had gone to the trouble of telling him. After an awkward silence he looked away from her, towards the window, and said, "They saw each other again then—Cuchulain and the elfin Queen?"

Something like a blush mottled the dark skin of Holly's cheeks, "So the story goes."

"Were they lovers?" Artemis asked the question as if it were of supreme unimportance, as if he couldn't care less about the answer. His eyes were still fixed on the reddening sky so he could not have seen the look of mingled surprise and embarrassment that crossed his companion's face, but he shrugged and said, as if in reply, "He was young, and she was beautiful, and she had saved his life. It's not an illogical conclusion to draw."

_And not all healings are administered through a kiss,_ thought Holly. She discovered to her chagrin that she could not quite look at Artemis and spoke instead to his bedspread, "Maybe. I think so. Not for long."

"What happened?"

Holly could feel the slight movement of the bed as Artemis shifted—it rocked up into her and for a moment she was unbalanced by him both physically and mentally and had to steady herself before she could speak. She licked her lips, which were dry, and endeavoured to make her voice casual, "Cuchulain had married young. His wife didn't approve of her husband dallying with another woman, especially one not even human. She came upon them one night and accused Fand of bewitching him, of making him waste his life caught between his own world and one of which he could never be a part. And Fand knew that Emer—that was his wife's name—was right, and that she and Cuchulain could not dwell together among the Mud Men or the People. So she left him, and they never met again beneath the skies of this world."

The boy was silent. Holly risked a glance at him and saw that he was biting his lower lip. She watched him release it, saw the colour return and the pale marks of his teeth vanish as the blood came. She saw him swallow, "What happened to Cuchulain?" he asked at last.

"He missed her, for a while. Then he forgot her. Human memories are short, but fairies…Fand mourned him for an age, long after he was dust and ashes and all who knew him were dead."

"Holly…" Artemis said, voice cracking on the word. His throat must have been sore. She waited, but the name was not a prequel to a statement or a question. He said it like an offer, like an answer. Holly wondered, not for the first time, if anything would be resolved by putting into words all the things that remained unsaid between them. Surely anything was better than these suffocating silences. But she did not know what you were supposed to say when you knew that the friendship someone had once offered you had changed into something deeper and sweeter and infinitely more complicated, and you did not want it. Could not want it. How did you take something so precious and cast it aside, knowing that you had to, because how could you accept love while knowing that you could not honourably return it, not without ruining yourself and the other. Fand must have felt like this, Holly thought, when she laid her palms on Cuchulain's chest and felt the beat of his heart, fragile against her palms.

_If you give me your heart,_ she thought, _I will break it. And in doing so break my own._

But aloud, into the cool evening air that filled Artemis's room with the scent of cut grass, Holly said, "It's almost moonrise," and slid off the bed.

"Yes," he said softly. The light was going and it was difficult to see his face, but his eyes shone softly in the darkness. He hesitated. Then, as if the words were torn from him, he asked, "Won't you stay?"

"I'll come back to heal you, when you're sleeping."

"I'll wait up for you."

"Don't," she felt the hurt as if it were her own, paired with the dangerous impulse to wipe the disappointment from his face, to hold him tight and…_dangerous ground_, "You need sleep. The healing takes better if you're well rested." And it would be infinitely easier to resume their old roles of comrades-in-arms outside of this surreal environment, with his vulnerability and her story-telling and the twilight blurring outlines and boundaries in the not-time between night and day.

"As you wish," he said, and rolled away from her, shutting his eyes and pulling the covers up to his chin. It was as close to a farewell as they were going to get under the circumstances. Holly felt a wave of intense nostalgia for the days when things between them had been easier—for the simplicity of friendship or even of uncomplicated hatred. She reached out a hand, thought better of it and walked to the window.

"Goodnight, Arty," she said, and fired up her stealth-suit.

The boy waited until he was quite sure that she was gone before he stood and walked to the window. He was still there an hour later when Butler came to check on him, shivering uncontrollably as he stared out into the still night. His bodyguard, head full of the dangers of standing by an open window with no dressing gown on a chill spring night when you _already_ had a fever, lead his unresisting employer back to bed. He resolved to stay the night, in case Artemis had any more suicide missions planned, such as sleeping in the deep freezer in his underwear. Old he might be, but the bodyguard was fairly confident he could last a night watch without falling asleep. Having said that, his pride was not so great that he could not pretend to have dozed off around half past three in the morning, when Holly Short suddenly materialised by Artemis's bedside. Butler knew her so well by now that his brain processed her as a non-threat before his muscled could give even an involuntary tensing. He remained slumped low in his chair, watching through slitted eyes as the elf rose a metre into the air, leaned forward to push aside the collar of Artemis's nightshirt and kissed him upon his bare left shoulder. When one person's safety becomes your whole life you grow used to witnessing intimate scenes, but still Butler felt like a voyeur in those few hushed moments before Holly vanished once more and the blue sparks around Artemis's head and chest flickered into darkness. He shook from himself the sense of having intruded on something private and holy, two dominant emotions instead playing in his mind. The first was a sense of relief that Artemis would be well come morning. The second was the odd, helpless sensation of knowing that he had at last encountered a threat against which all his training was useless, against which Artemis would not want protection even if it were possible, and which could break his boy more completely than anything a commonplace murderer could devise.

**A/N: **So the story behind this bit of madness is—I am going back to University in three weeks and it is unlikely that while desperately trying to remember which drug does what to the human body I am going to find time to write fiction of epic proportions. One-shots, however, I can do. So here we have a fic which will probably consist of a lot of standalones that will nevertheless tell a story of sorts, mainly tracking the progression of the conundrum that is Artemis and Holly over the years. It will be updated erratically if at all and will probably sway between silliness and somewhat poetic angst depending on my mood.

As to this particular piece, I'm undecided. The aim was to do a Holly/Artemis based at the very beginning of everything. Nothing has been said, nothing has been asked, but the emotions are there, following TTP, and there's the hint of future things to come. The story Holly tells Artemis is a modified version of an Irish saga to which this fic owes its name. In my original draft she told him the story to the very end, with Cuchulain and Fand's parting and all that entailed. But I couldn't honestly see Holly deciding to tell Artemis a story about a romance between an elf and a human, so I took it right back to their beginnings. I think it's more believable that she dredged up a tale that sprang to mind because of Artemis's current situation and didn't think at that precise moment what happened to the characters five stories later. Kind of like giving someone a copy of 'Artemis Fowl' because you think the first book is funny and not because you think they'll love the epic romance of Artemis and Holly, first barely hinted at five volumes later.

Anyway. I'm babbling. Cheerio!


	2. The Night Before Christmas

**The Night Before Christmas**

At five years old, Myles Fowl had abandoned any and all illusions relating to the existence of Santa Claus. Not only were his math skills sufficiently advanced to appreciate the impossibility of visiting every child in the world in twenty four hours, he also knew the combination to the safe in the west wing and had watched the gradual accumulation of presents throughout the month of December. This, combined with raiding the wastepaper basket in his mother's bedroom for old receipts, had confirmed his theory that every item on his 'letter to Santa' had been bought and paid for by Mum and Dad. Either his family had angered Santa in some way and were endeavouring to keep this fact from their younger members, or the man in question did not exist. And since several of his father's recent projects had been concerned with halting the melting of their yuletide benefactor's supposed home, Myles was fairly certain that the second option was the correct one.

Not so Beckett.

Myles knew his brother lapped up Mum's stories of elves and reindeer and fat men in red coats somehow squeezing themselves down chimneys. It was not the most ridiculous of Beckett's beliefs, not by a long shot. He currently had an imaginary friend called Patrick and was convinced that Mum's garden gnome was alive and would move if Beckett could only take him by surprise. He always shouted 'BOO!' whenever they passed the gnome in the garden, though so far the only person he had succeeded in surprising was the gardener, who tripped over his rake and fell into the pond. According to their teacher, Beckett was 'more typical of a five year old than his brother', though his taste for soy sauce in his morning milk was unusual. But the reception Myles received when he presented his anti-Santa argument to his twin was still annoying in the extreme.

"If Santa hears you say that," Beckett replied, yawning, as they waited for Juliet to return with their hot water bottles, "He'll put you on the naughty list." It was nearly nine o clock. They had been allowed to stay up an extra hour as a Christmas Eve treat, hanging up their stockings at the fireplace and laying out a mince-pie and a nip of whiskey for Santa.

"And I hope he enjoys it," Dad had chuckled as he helped Myles hold the decanter over the glass. It smelled disgusting. "That's a single-malt."

"I should imagine he'll be too drunk to tell by this point," Artemis had remarked, smirking as he watched the proceedings, "It's fortunate that Saint Nicholas is not confined by drink-driving laws, as I presume he will have had several million glasses of whiskey by this point. Imagine if he were to lose his license."

Myles had not quite understood the joke, but his parents had merely laughed when he asked for clarification and even Artemis, who seemed distracted and kept glancing out the window, had made a 'later' motion. He hated it when things went over his head, and he was still seething a little when Juliet helped him and Beckett into their pyjamas.

"There _isn't_ a naughty list," Myles retorted now, "_Mum and Dad_ buy the presents."

"Mum and Dad don't have our Christmas lists," Beckett shot back, with the smugness of one who knows his logic is irrefutable, "We put them up the chimney."

_After Mum helped us write them_, Myles was about to reply, but at that moment Juliet returned with their hot water bottles in her arms. All debates were forgotten in a five-minute wrestling match (they won, though not before their bodyguard had schooled them in the proper execution of a piledriver).

"And here I thought you were taking a break from wrestling," Artemis remarked from where he was leaning, arms folded, against the doorframe, "All your opponents who expect you to be soft and out of practice when you return will be sadly mistaken."

"These two could go pro," Juliet grinned and gently extricated herself from Myles and his brother, "Night, munchkins. Get to sleep quickly or Santa won't come!"

Myles rolled his eyes and thought he caught an answering twitch at the corner of his older brother's mouth. Artemis had, maddeningly, refused to discuss the Santa issue up until now. The younger Fowl suspected this was yet another attempt to 'preserve his childhood'. Now he tried to catch Artemis's eye but his brother was making room for Juliet to slip past him—and then looking at her in puzzlement as she stopped, grinning broadly. She glanced up.

Myles and Beckett knew their lines, "Mistletoe!" they chorused. Mum had fixed sprigs of the plant in what seemed like every doorway in the house and insisted that people kiss whenever they met beneath the white berries. For the most part everyone seemed to find it funny—though Dad had paid Myles ten pounds yesterday to keep quiet about the fact that he and Butler had passed each other in the hall without upholding the Christmas tradition. Myles couldn't see what all the fuss was about, personally. Artemis raised an eyebrow as Juliet pursed her lips theatrically, then kissed her lightly on the cheek. She ruffled his hair and left, leaving him looking decidedly put out. Artemis's desire to have every hair in place at every moment was another thing Myles didn't quite get. If you let people ruffle your hair they thought you were cute, and then they gave you things. Perhaps he would enlighten Artemis on the subject at some point, if he ever caved about the Santa issue.

"Good night hug!" Beckett demanded, and their big brother hugged them.

"Sleep well," he said, "Just think—when you wake up, it will be Christmas morning!"

Myles slid down into his warm bed, but Beckett was not ready to go to sleep just yet. Holding on to the sleeve of Artemis's shirt, he asked, "Arty…what happens if Santa didn't get our letters? What happens if they got lost on the way to the North Pole?"

"They didn't get lost, Beckett, don't you worry," Myles watched as Artemis tucked his brother's blankets firmly around him, "I have contacts in Santa's Workshop who have assured me that all Fowl requests have been fulfilled in a more than satisfactory manner."

Beckett's blue eyes widened, "You mean you know Santa's elves?"

Artemis's mouth twitched. He got to his feet and walked to the door, turning off the main light. Between the twins a nightlight glowed dimly—Beckett firmly believed that invisible monsters lived under his bed and ventured out in the dark to lay eggs in his hair. "In a manner of speaking."

Beckett settled down, eyes drifting closed, "Wow," he mumbled, "So for Christmas, you could get anything you want, right? Anything at all?"

Artemis reached up and ripped the mistletoe from the doorframe. His face as he slipped it into his pocket was unreadable. "Goodnight," he said, and shut the door.

*****

It felt like only minutes later—though the numbers on his digital clock revealed that nearly three hours had passed—when Myles was shaken roughly from a dream. It had been a strange dream; he was flying the Jet when he suddenly realised that Beckett's imaginary friend Patrick was in the co-pilot seat (this was a problem because Patrick did not have his Pilot's license). He was in the middle of explaining that they would have to perform an emergency landing at the North Pole when he realised he was flying a sleigh and that Patrick was in fact an elf who winked at him, flashing a hazel eye. It took him a moment to get his bearings and to realise that it was Beckett who was shaking him, voice low and excited as he whispered:

"Myles! Myles, listen! It's him! It's Santa!"

Myles listened. There was a strange noise overhead, a scraping and clattering on the roof that ended abruptly before he could listen properly. Beckett was beside himself, bouncing up and down on the bed, his hair sticking up in every direction, "Hear his reindeer? Myles, oh, Myles, let's go see him!"

"There's no…" Myles began, and then stopped. It was pointless trying to reason with Beckett, but if it turned out (as of course it would) that there was no Santa currently parking his reindeer on their roof, his brother might be dejected enough to see sense. There was an observation deck where Dad liked to set up his telescope on clear nights that provided a good view of the manor and its grounds—a quick glance from up there should show the lack of sleighs and then Myles could get back to bed. Only six more hours between him and that new microscope.

"Come on, then," he whispered back, and slid out of bed. Beckett padded after him, literally humming with excitement. Myles made shushing motions with his hands. Being caught halfway up to the observation deck by Mum or Butler was not part of the plan. They would say he was 'getting Beckett into trouble' again—as if he needed help. Myles would admit to masterminding the raid on the pantry, but Beckett had got stuck up that tree all on his own. Moving quietly, the two little boys padded along the landing and took the flight of stairs that led to the roof of the manor. Halfway up, Myles paused. He could hear voices up above. It was obvious what had happened now—someone was sitting on the observation deck and had slipped or dropped something, making the clattering noise that had woken Beckett. He turned to relay this to his brother, but Beckett—hearing the voices too but jumping to an entirely different conclusion—had pushed past him and was scrambling up the steps towards the open trapdoor. He was nearly there when one of the people above spoke again, and the twins, realising simultaneously who was talking, stopped and held themselves very still. It was Artemis, and he was laughing.

"…some sort of law about flying under the influence. I thought you were going to fall right off the roof."

As the boys watched, a smaller silhouette picked itself up from where it had been sitting by the edge of the deck and marched over—a little unsteadily—to smack their brother over the head. Artemis winced and put a hand to the spot, but continued to chuckle quietly.

"I am _not_ drunk," said the small person in a voice Myles didn't recognise. He'd thought his brother was up there with a little girl, but this person didn't sound like a child, "I misjudged the angles, that's all."

"I wasn't aware elves celebrated Christmas."

"See?" Beckett's said in a hot rush of breath against Myles's ear, "Artemis _said_ he was friends with Santa's elves!"

"He was _joking_," Myles replied, but his voice was uncertain. The facts were there. The height of the figure who was not a child. The sounds on the roof which had sounded very much like a botched landing. And Artemis had said _elves_…

"We don't keep your human celebrations," the elf (if that was indeed what she was) scoffed, "It's midwinter—the shortest days have passed and the sun is returning to us. We dance around the fires to celebrate her rebirth."

"And consume large quantities of sim-wine, needless to say."

She heaved a long sigh, the world-weariness of which was slightly marred when it ended in a hiccup. As Artemis laughed again—sounding as relaxed and happy as Myles could remember him ever being—she tilted her chin haughtily away from him. The younger Fowls noticed it at the same moment, though it was Beckett that nudged his brother hard in the ribs. Her ears, backlit by the moon, were pointed.

"Here I am, cutting my own holidays short to drop in on you and all you can do is mock me. I got invited to nine parties tonight. _Nine._"

"You know it's always a pleasure to see you, Holly," said Artemis, and his voice was different now, quieter, so that Myles had to strain to hear it.

"See?" Beckett was triumphant, "Her name is _Holly_. Like the carol. So she must be Santa's elf. Myles, let's go look for him!"

Myles shook his head. For one thing, there was an _elf_ sitting on his _roof_, talking to his brother like they were old friends, and there was no way he was going to miss a second of it. For another, he was no longer entirely convinced that he would not run into a man in a red suit filling their stockings if he decided to go back down to the house now. And if Santa knew (as surely he must, being so acquainted with Artemis) that Myles had spent the last month telling everyone that he wasn't real) it was bound to be an awkward meeting.

"I got you something," said Artemis up above, reaching into the pocket of his dressing gown and passing a small wrapped box to the figure beside him, "Call it a midwinter present."

There was the sound of ripping paper, the hiss of a lifting lid, followed by a faint chinking as something metallic was uncoiled from its repose. The elf named Holly held up a fine gold chain, upon the end of which a many-faceted crystal split the moon's glow into glittering shards.

"I know you don't wear jewellery," he said quickly, sounding nervous, "But this is the last of the ransom fund. I had it melted down. If you don't want it you could always give it to the Council, with my regards. Let them know their funds haven't been entirely squandered in the criminal underworld."

Myles frowned, trying and failing to make some sense out of this. He admitted defeat several seconds before the elf spoke. Her voice sounded stuffy. Could she have caught a cold at the North Pole? "Of course I want it. It's lovely." She raised her hands to fasten it about her neck, but she seemed to have trouble with the catch. The five-year-old watched as Artemis knelt behind her and settled the necklace in place. He remembered watching Dad do the same thing for Mum on her birthday, when she put on her favourite blue diamond necklace. Like Dad, Artemis lingered when the catch was fastened and for a second Myles thought he was going to kiss her on the neck as well. Then Holly turned to face him, drawing a hand quickly across her eyes as she did so, "I didn't get you anything, I'm sorry."

They saw Artemis's shoulders rise and fall, "You've given me enough."

"Nothing this precious, though." She fingered the smooth chain.

There was a brief flash of teeth in the moonlight as Artemis smiled, "Not in the material sense, perhaps."

She looked down, then reached out to pick up something that lay on the roof between them, "Look, you dropped this," she held it up and the berries shone white, "What is it?"

"It's mistletoe," he sounded ready to laugh again, "You know mistletoe, Holly, surely?"

"We're not exactly surrounded by greenery where I come from," she replied dryly, "Why are you carrying a plant around in your pocket?"

"It's unlucky for it to touch the ground. It's supposed to lose its powers."

"Which are?"

"It's the Scandinavian plant of peace," Artemis explained, fingering the bark, "If two opposing armies met beneath it in a forest, they put away their arms and were at peace for a day. It didn't matter what their people thought of one another—for that day, they forgot that they were different," he held the sprig a little higher, "And of course if a man and a woman meet beneath the mistletoe, they are obliged to kiss."

"Really?" the elf got to her feet, dusting off her rear end, "But you said it had lost all its powers. How unfortunate."

Myles did not hear his brother's reply, because at that very moment there was a soft snore from beside him and he realised that Beckett had fallen asleep. Surely Santa would be done with their rooms by now. He slid a hand over his twin's mouth to stifle any noise and shook him gently.

"Is it Christmas?" Beckett asked groggily, "Did I get my pogo stick?"

"Not yet," Myles whispered back. He glanced up. Artemis and the elf were standing now and she was checking her back, upon which Myles could make out the outlines of wings. There was still no sign of Santa. Maybe he had hundreds of workers who were sent out to deliver presents to different countries. That would be a solution to the timing problem, although Myles would have thought that Fowl Manor ranked highly enough to merit a visit from the man himself, "Come on, Beckett, let's go back to bed."

"Merry Christmas," said the elf, leaning forward to kiss their older brother on the cheek. Myles turned away and began helping Beckett down the stairs, tiptoeing to avoid a telltale creak.

"Midwinter luck," came Artemis's voice, muffled now from the space between them. Myles quickened his pace, but there were no sounds that indicated that the older Fowl was on his way down. He must have been watching her go. The five-year-old was half afraid that Artemis would look in on them on his way to bed—the twins slept between the stairs to the roof and Artemis's own bedroom. He wasn't sure how well he could affect sleep with everything that was buzzing around in his head. But although he lay awake for several minutes after Beckett's breathing became slow and regular, he did not hear Artemis pass his door before he fell asleep.

*****

"…and look what else Santa brought me!" Beckett crowed. Myles did not look up from his microscope. It was half past eleven on Christmas morning and Beckett had spent the last four and a half hours showing Myles all the wonders that had bourn his name under the Christmas tree. Beckett had received, as requested, a poncho, a pogo stick, a ukulele and a go-kart, among other things. His five minutes of heartbreak when it was revealed that Santa had misinterpreted his request for a parrot and only left him a model was quickly forgotten when it was discovered that the toy was remote-controlled and recite twelve different phrases. He had not mentioned their adventures the night before. Either he had forgotten them, half-asleep as he had been, or the lack of Santa Claus had rendered the expedition unworthy of discussion. Unless Myles had been dreaming…

"Mistletoe!" Juliet's trill rang through the house. Myles got up to peer through the living room door. Artemis, Juliet and Butler were standing in the hall. Artemis did not look pleased.

"Really, Juliet," he snapped, "I am not going to kiss my manservant just because of some Scandinavian tradition."

"That mistletoe fell down yesterday, anyway," said Myles, "It's lost its power."

Artemis looked around, but he did not look surprised or suspicious, "Thank you, Myles," he said.

"I've never heard that," Juliet pouted.

"In Scandinavia," Myles continued, "Mistletoe was the plant of peace. If two armies met beneath it, they put away their arms and were at peace for a day. They forgot that they were different."

Now Artemis's brow furrowed and he took a step towards his little brother, "That's true," he said, "I didn't know you knew that."

"I know lots of things," said Myles, satisfied, and went back to the living room. He had five new encyclopaedias to read and he still owed Beckett that Dominoes rematch, all of which would be much more fun than kissing elves on roofs in the middle of the night. Growing up, Myles Fowl decided, was most definitely overrated.

**A/N:** First off, a little note that has nothing at all to do with this story. I've had a couple of people asking me when I plan to update 'The Miracle of Life'. Sorry to have given you false hope, guys, but it was never meant to be more than a two-shot. I was actually going to upload it all at once but it got too long and so I had to go with chapters—which lead people to believe it was a full-length story. Some day I may write a fic where Artemis and Holly's child is actually born, but not yet.

On to this little thing—totally out of season, I know. Me and a couple of Uni friends decided to crack out the Christmas movies the other day, purely for laughs, and it got me in the mood for this. It has a different feel from the last chapter but then it's supposed to. This is meant to be a collection of stories tracing Artemis and Holly's relationship through time and I wanted to get in a couple of the other character's perceptions of them. Feedback on Myles would be appreciated. I tried to go for a very, very intelligent five-year-old who is nonetheless a little uninformed on the subtleties of adult interaction. I may go back and edit this, though—I'm not sure how well this came across.


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